As I am walking through the west mall, I come upon an interesting booth. It is occupied by a small man with little beady eyes and hair that looks as if it has not been washed for weeks. He is very pale and does not exude a very friendly aura. Nevertheless, he looks as if he is hiding some big secret and is just waiting for an opportunity to tell somebody. The booth has a small sheet of paper on the front with text that is illegible from a distance beyond ten yards, which is perhaps the reason there are no visitors. I step into the shaded area in front of the booth and read the small text: ‘Take a Ride Into the Past.’ Befuddled, I ask the man about the sign. He slowly leans over the wooden counter top with a furtive smile: ‘You know, you are the first one whose stopped at my booth for two hours. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it just gave you the opportunity of a lifetime.’ I take a cautious step back. What in the hell is this guy talking about? He makes a calming gesture with his hands, as if to say he is not crazy. He then collapses the booth and begins walking, signaling me to follow.

We pass through the bustle of the Drag and walk a couple of blocks to his apartment. He opens the door to a small, dimly lit efficiency with gizmos and gadgets strewn about the floor. A large computer in the right corner catches my attention. He asks me to sit down on the couch. After clearing some space, I take a seat and listen to him explain the comments he made at the booth. He is a mechanical engineering student three weeks away from completing his degree. This semester, however, he had to take an upper-division English class which he had been vigorously avoiding. On his first two papers, he failed miserably. His average is a forty. The teacher said the only way he could pass is with an ‘A’ on the final paper, a research project on Salamanca University (it was a Spanish Literature class). He knew there is no way he could ever write an ‘A’ quality paper, and he does not trust writing services. He needs a foolproof solution. Using his knowledge of engineering, he developed a time-traveling machine. He wants me to travel to early twentieth-century Spain and gather information for a detailed report on the university. Considering the trip a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I happily agree. I sit down in a large metal chair and Alex (he finally tells me his name) attaches electrodes to my head and chest. With my heart pounding, Alex begins the countdown: ‘Three, Two, One…’

 

            Feeling slightly woozy, I open my eyes to a magnificent structure that I take to be the University of Salamanca. The large building is at first intimidating. From a distance, the tall outer walls seem to enclose the university as if it is a prison, but the design is too remarkable for such a comparison. More precisely, the building looks like an ancient fortress. Historical significance seems to seep through every feature and the cumulative effect is overpowering.

            Eager for a closer look, I wander toward what looks like the main entrance (two large doors). I reach the front and bend my neck at a near ninety-degree angle to capture the entire wall. The large size is the most obvious characteristic; however, the intricate detail within the wall is what really catches my attention. The wall is scattered with royal crests, foliage, portraits of ancient figures, shells, large attached columns, and other intriguing items. The centerpiece of the wall is the crest of Spain, suggesting a strong connection with the state. Furthermore, the wall contains numerous religious symbols and I sense an affiliation between the university and church.

            I tell myself that I must come back at some point to get a better look at the wall and maybe bring someone to help explain the symbols. I walk around the corner and come upon a large church that sits adjacent to the university. A large dome rests at the top with an apex that seems to sit in the clouds, much like the UT tower. The dome funnels down into a body of columns and windows. The sharp peaks at the top of each arch contrast to the looser design of the university and suggest the very professional and serious nature of the proceedings within the walls. On the UT campus, there are also churches near the classrooms; however, the church in Salamanca differs in size and presence. The church almost demands attention from the students by being so large and close. The churches near UT sometimes blend into the landscape of other buildings, and are often towered over by large administration buildings.

            I decide to keep moving and pass through an open door on the university side, finding myself in the courtyard. It was unlike any place I’ve been at UT. The courtyard has two lush patches of soft green grass, and the students are scattered with books in hand. All four sides are marked with large candelabra pillars. The sun is directly overhead beating down on the studious faces. The heat is comparable to Texas summers although much drier, and the campus is without trees to provide shade. The only protection from the sun is in the hallways, and I sense some disappointment in the students who prefer to study outside. I walk to the centerpiece of the courtyard and take a seat on a large round platform. I close my eyes for a couple of seconds and can almost feel the history of the university entering my body with each breath. To know that Christopher Columbus, Hernan Cortes, Cervantes, and many others have stepped foot on these same grounds creates a youthful admiration I have not felt in years.[1] The footprints of the accomplishments of these men surround me everyday at Texas.

            Struck with curiosity to find the place where these great minds acquired some of their knowledge, I search the campus for the library, often stopping a passerby and asking for the location in broken Spanish with a hint of Texas twang. After receiving sympathetic smiles for my feeble attempt to speak the native language, I am directed to a giant hallway with a large door at the end. Entering through the old wooden door, a loud creaking sound displaces the attention of the library’s occupants from their books to me. It feels much different than, say, interrupting a class at Texas. As a foreigner, I feel a greater obligation to good etiquette and my mistakes seem magnified. With blood rushing to my face, I quickly begin to observe the incredible collection of what I learn to be one-hundred and sixty thousand books.[2] The library is split into two levels, and the highest shelf of books on each level necessitates tiptoes and full arm extension. Large glass windows at the top provide a secondary source of light and allow scenery for an occasional break from reading. The most magnificent aspect of the library, however, is the height. One can seemingly fill his/her brain with the words of every book in the library yet never feel overwhelmed. The tremendous space suggests the foolishness of burdensome studying and gives perspective to the place of education within the enormity of the world.

            As I continue with the expenditure, I feel my stomach muscles contracting with hunger. Having no real clue about the local food, I head for a strip of shops heavy with activity hoping to find an eatery. I first pass a woman’s clothing store. A quick glance at the main window reveals a variety of dresses, each unique in size and color. As I dislodge my eyes from the window, a recent customer exits with a newly purchased dress. Her dark complexion is magnified under the light blue tone of the dress. The swirl of pastel colors accentuates her large brown eyes and dark curly hair, and she produces a smile of self-awareness at her undeniable beauty. All day I have been witness to similarly gorgeous women. The heat seems to radiate off their dark skin, causing small beads of sweat that make their bodies glisten. They possess an unmistakable aura of beauty. Unwillingly, I take my eyes off the attractive stranger and proceed with my search for food. The next shop has large cured hams hanging behind the front window. At first I think the store must be a butcher’s shop; however, glancing into the small space between the hams, I spot a couple having lunch. I step back from the sidewalk and onto the street to get a better look at the window and notice the words ‘bocadillo’ and ‘la comida mejor.’ I am unsure about ‘bocadillo,’ but I recognize that the latter of the two means ‘the best food.’ With hunger pushing my inquisitiveness, I step through the front door and approach the counter. A large variety of meat sits underneath a glass countertop that has been smudged with fingerprints of previously hungry customers. A large man appears and nods his head in an attempt to non-verbally communicate his readiness to take my order. He can sense my foreignness without conversing. I point at one of the smaller slabs of ham, assuming size corresponds with demand. He grabs the small ham and begins to cut the meat on a large slicer in the back. Clearly, the shop is not for weak stomachs. He finishes the sandwich and rings up the total. His is displeased when I present him American money, but accepts it in a tolerant manner, as if he has experienced the problem all too often.

            With food now in my body, I stumble outside of the deli and come upon a very unique building. From a distance, the building appears to be infected with measles. After harassing a townsperson with repetitive shouts of ‘Que?’ in the general direction of the building, I gather the name ‘casa de las conchas.’ Once again I am forced to use my limited knowledge of Spanish and find the phrase to mean ‘the house of shells.’ My initial unfavorable opinion of the building is replaced with a sense of amazement, and for a moment the blue background of the sky blends in with the shells on the wall and I feel the sensation of sand between my toes. I am hundreds of miles from the ocean, yet I can feel the dry air and smell the marine life. The building transplants geography.

            Completely mesmerized, I take a couple steps back and begin a full three-hundred and sixty degree turn. Seeing the church, the walls of the university, and a small plaza full with activity, I begin to breathe heavily. The entire scene meshes into a continuous picture of vibrant humanity. Sadly, I notice that the sun is beginning to set and Alex will soon bring me back. I head back to the university and step into a long passageway. The large wall to my right provides shade from the seemingly omnipresent sun, and the detail on the lower part of the buildings becomes more obscure with the increasing darkness of each passing second. Directly in front of me, a large statue shines brightly with the reflection of the setting sun, not yet under the protection of the walls. I walk up to the statue and read the name ‘Fray Luis de Leon.’ The inscription tells of his persecution during the Spanish inquisition. His work as a poet and professor was deemed heretical by the church and he spent years in prison. Soon after his release, he returned to Salamanca to continue his teaching. His first public address began with: ‘As we mentioned yesterday…,’ and he is recognized as a symbol of strength that characterizes the university[3]. As the central point of the campus, I imagined that the passion for truth and education that inspired Leon to uphold his values is carried to the students through his commemoration.

            Suddenly, my fingers start to disappear, and then my hand, and soon my entire arm seems to have vanished. I feel a strong electric current pulsate through my body, and my view of Fray Luis de Leon is replaced with the inquisitive eyes of Alex. He asks me about the trip, but his real concern is the paper. I inform him I have more than enough information. I walk home and type my best recollection of the experience, and right after I finish I check my calendar for the closest opportunity to get back over to Salamanca.

Word Count: 2,124